My Immortal, Remade
by Mochashakee
Summary: A remake of My Immortal. No Mary-Sues, character butchering, or horrid grammer. What do you know? The plot isn't overused! M for insanity, depression and PENISES!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is only a remake. I own NOTHING you recognize.**

Dementia. The loss of cognitive function due to changes in the brain caused by disease or trauma. It was insanity. It was a disease. It was a name.

Dementia Pollux Wraithorne was not a typical girl, nor was she a typical child. Circumstances had forced her to become older than she was. Now she was cursed to a life of emptiness. She found no pleasure normal things. She found no pleasure in extraordinary things. The happiness that came to others easily was a rarety for her. She simply was Dementia. It was her past, present and future. It was her.

She was a witch, attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy in order to harness her powers. But even in such a magical place she was unique, different from the rest. Halfblood was a term used to describe a student who had one pureblood parent and one muggle parent. Though only her mother was a witch, halfbreed was an incorrect label. Her father held a different kind of magic: something...sinister.

The dry wind ran its diaphaneous fingers through her smooth tresses and along her porcelain skin. Numerous snowflakes imbedded themselves in her hair and lashes, giving her the appearance of a Winter-kissed phantom. Her glaucous gems scanned the ashen blanket, ignoring the subtle sting, and various melodies surfaced in her mind. Any peace that had fallen on the aged lass evaporated once she spotted an arrogant blonde striding purposefully toward her.

Draco Malfoy and his posse stood around her, grinning like baffoons. "Why hello there _Dementia_," he greeted, emphasizing her grim name. He possessed an air of arrogance and rancor, but she new better. This display was merely a show to convince the public that he was mean enough to slaughter innocents and stupid enough to believe it was righteous. Neither were true, but his family would never accept him as he was. The thought filled her with pity.

She acknowledged his presence with a glance. A glance was all it took. He saw her warmth, her sadness, her understanding. The heir was unaccustomed to such idle fancies and responded with his only true familiarity: conceit. His cocky grin shrunk into a grimace of disgust.

"Why are you looking at me like that, you halfblood whore?" he spat, but it wasn't genuine. She could see it in his eyes. "Are you in love with me or something? Well, you have good taste." At this, his coterie snickered. "But no one could ever touch something as filthy as you! Except, maybe, Longbottom!...No, even he's too good for you."

"Call me Demi," she requested, seeing right through him. Why did he bother tormenting himself like this? Her perception unnerved him to no end. He lashed out at her, backhanding her with a fluid movement. The gaudy ring split open the skin on her cheek and the force of the blow knocked her onto the snow. The air hung heavy. No one had expected him to hurt her, but no one minded either. No one but him.

"Did I say you could talk to me," he scolded. Silence was interupted by a series of quiet giggles. The group looked at each other in horror. What was the matter with her? "Why are you laughing, you stupid girl? There's nothing funny going on!" His voice was raised an octave, evidence of his hysteria.

"Oh Draco," she cooed, grinning maliciously. "Hit me again." His mouth fell open in horror and he scampered away, crew in tow. Her smile grew victorious. They were intimidated by a halfblood. How would they react if they new the true extent of her ability? Her canines began to ache, as they always did after their touching moments. Sensing none, she allowed them to lengthen. Relief swelled within her, but it was short-lived. She hid her fangs as she noticed her dear friend, Grace, approaching.

Grace was slender and gorgeous, blessed with luscious blonde waves and sparkling sapphires for eyes. It always shocked people to find out that she was, in fact, quite bookish.

"I would have come for you earlier," she stated "But I'd rather not gain his attention." Grace had always despised Draco, not that many people didn't. It wasn't entirely uncommon for Slytherins to loathe each other.

"Is it time," the hybrid inquired, rising gracefully. It was truly spectacular how she could make everything sound so important.

"Yes," her friend replied.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is only a remake. I own NOTHING you recognize.**

**Anonymous: fangz gurjl! u b da bisst frond evaa! Do you know what I said? Cause I don't! The encouragement means a lot, but the system is a failure! Don't hope! You'll only be let down in the end...**

**traviswj: Didn't think I'd see you over here! Aren't I an overachiever: working on six different stories? Just kidding. There's eight. But you'll find few of them here! Kya ha ha!~**

Dementia awoke in the early morning. She rose and approached the window, her long gown trailing behind her. The world was black and white beyond the glass. A bitter wind tossed the thick flakes back and forth. Suddenly, a splitting ache surfaced in her pretty little head and a ringing was in her ears. The pain grew and shocked her system. Shakily, she limped to the chest at the foot of her bed and knelt beside it. Inside was a set of vials, all of them empty. _Spirits!_

She desperately needed blood, but her supply had run out. How could she let this happen? A soft snore roused her from her panic. One of her dormmates, a snob by the name of Pansy Parkinson, was resting peacefully. The candle, still lit on her bedside table, cast ethereal glows along the smooth skin of her neck, enticing her.

Dementia grew angry. She had no right to be so beautiful; so perfect. She deserved to be snapped in two, drained of life, anything. The hybrid rushed to the girl and mounted her with an unearthly grace. She could see the vein, calling her name just beneath the skin. One bite. One bite was all she needed, one bite was all she deserved, one bite would end her.

The fragile human sighed and shifted a bit. She looked so...alive. Why would anyone want to ruin something so wonderful? Dementia left the room in a hurry. There was only one person who could help her.

Pansy roused herself that morning with the strangest feeling; as if death had knocked on her door, then walked away because it couldn't stand what it was about to do. She stood, stretched, and looking around. How dull. Her room was dreadfully boring. It needed some _uumph!_ Maybe a few posters, some garland. Or a window.

Dementia watched with grim fascination as white fluff gathered on the surface of the Black Lake. She wondered how the squid must feel; all alone, trapped in the depths, with no one capable of understanding it. She was lucky. Her father understood her. Who did the squid have?

Someone blonde and arrogant corrupted her view of the lake. He stood tall, arms crossed and aura determined. What was his purpose?

"What's wrong with you," he asked, rather snidely. "I give you my attention and you blow me off. But when I'm cruel, you smile and tell me to hit you? Are you insane?"

"Insanity is a gift," she said "A blessing. One I do indeed possess. You have no interest in understanding me. Why, then, do you come? Is it to pass the time or gain knowledge you, so embarassingly, lack. Does it bother you that you make no sense of this halfblood whore?"

"What if it does," he inquired with a superiority he did not feel. This filth _humbled_ him!

She rose slowly and stared him down. Moments passed, but it felt like hours to him. "Fix it," she advised and turned her back on him.

Draco watched her walk for a moment, baffled. "How," he called after her. She did not answer.

Dementia found herself daydreaming throughout the day. Her dear friend frequently had to pester her into the real world.

"Earth to Demi," Grace whispered, twirling a blonde lock around her slim finger. In their third hour, the Slytherins were particularly attentative. Defense Against the Dark Arts was class the majority would need to remember.

She blinked, then focused on the blonde. "I wasn't distracted," she said. Anyone would claim she was in denial, but Grace wasn't anyone. This was as close to facetious as the Slytherin got.

"Cute," Grace replied, staring through her thick lashes. "You weren't thinking about Draco, were you?" A knowing look flashed in her azure orbs.

"I have more important matters to dwell on," Dementia retorted, picking up a quill. Professor Snape had been lecturing for twenty minutes and she only had ten minutes worth of notes.

Grace hesitated. "More important than a tortured soul," she inquired, knowing the weight it carried. Her friend held an odd signifigance to souls and understanding them.

Dementia looked at her companion, eyes frightfully alert. Draco Malfoy was a tortured soul. He was held to a high standard with no real joy in his life. The world either looked up to him or looked down on him. No one bothered to just be there. What was she going to do about that?

Dementia was going to fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: There are very few similarities between this chapter and it's inspiration. **

**This is only a remake. I own NOTHING you recognize.**

**traviswj: All of my stories are stored on my lovely acer computer and only three are fanfiction. But I'm flattered that you like my work!**

It was the last trip to Hogsmeade for the holidays. The quaint village was alive with joy and merchandise. Students rushed to find last minute gifts, entertain dates, and even purchase dress robes for those pesky formal events that tended to frequent this time of year. Did they even know what it meant?

Dementia gazed out of the window of the establishment at the passerbys. Lovers holding hands, friends teasing each other, it all sickened her. She envied that life, that normality. That happiness. Surpressing her own bitter fancies, she left the cafe in a fury. Knockturn Alley was where she needed to be. It was as close to home as she could get here.

She ignored the stares of her classmates as she entered what they considered a dangerous area. It was all familiar: the grime on the bricks, the dust in the lampposts, the rust on the benches. Despite her tidiness and artistry, the people seemed to recognize her as one of them. _Her_ people. She looked at each of them-all toothless smiles and horrifying smirks-and she felt a warmth bloom in her chest. She loved them all.

Dementia was pulled out of her adoration by a violent tug. She soon found herself pressed against the wall of a nearby alley by a boy with shockingly blonde hair. His stone eyes were smoldering and curious, like a predator with no comprehension of his prey and a desire to learn. If understanding her would make him happy, she would aid him.

"I'll fix you Draco," she promised, looking into his eyes with a rare sincerity. It caught him offgaurd.

He reacted negatively, as expected. "I'm not some toy that needs fixing!" he exclaimed, tightening his hold on her forearms.

Dementia tried, in vain, to ignore the sensation of his fingers digging into her skin. "You're more of the family portait. Their expectations, your aimless attempts, and the resulting emptiness; all wrapped in a single vestige. They wish for you to be intellegent and dull, clever and ignorant, powerful and simple. Anything less than the perfect balance is a failure, and you are to blame." The boy grew tense with each syllable. "You are a failure for being realistic. You are a failure for being satisfied. They are always just, and always correct. They have pushed you. Slowly at first, but now they have momentum on their side. You're closer the edge of the mantle, and soon you'll fall."

Draco gulped, staring into her. "What are you trying to say?"

"You're a glass portrait," she confessed, stepping closer to him. "You will break."

"So now I'm fragile," he hissed, wanting nothing more than to hurt this halfblood bitch. Make her cry. Stop this maniacal raving. But it wasn't maniacal, it was thoughtful. That was what scared him.

The girl smiled and nodded. "If you weren't fragile, you'd have already hit me."

His face morphed into an emotionless mask. How did she know? What else did she know? "If you've got something to say, say it."

Dementia fell back into her prophetic rambling. "We live in a changing world, a fearful world. One day, an opportunity will come and when it does, do not hesitate to leap."

Draco let go of her. She was bloody insane, that was it. She was no puzzle, no masterful work of art. "I'd just break," he said wryly.

The most peculiar look bloomed in her eyes. She was somewhere else, some where imaginary. Her eyes targetted him, but it was not him she saw. "It is only when you fall, that you learn whether or not you can fly."

A tremor ripped through his spine. But when he turned to look at her, he was alone.

Dementia sat in her bed, giggling to herself. She had not only baffled him; she understood him and gave him insight. Surely Draco would become happier now! Spirits knew he needed it. Her rambling was interrupted by a very brutal girl entering the room. Pansy huffed and threw her purse on her bed, grumbling. Then she looked about frantically and targeted her dormmate.

"He didn't even notice how hard I worked to look this good," she shrieked, clawing at her hair. "I practiced my makeup and bought this outfit and perfected my walk. But nothing! He just smiled at me and walked off." Suddenly, she seized her pacing and flopped onto her bed, sobbing. "Why doesn't he want me?"

Dementia was unsure. Should she be comforting or honest. She choose the latter. "You're attainable," the halfbreed confessed.

Pansy's wailing seized and she sat up, looking at her companion as if she had never seen her before. "What do you mean?"

Dementia continued, "You're expendable. You're always there when he wants you and when he doesn't. There's no chase, no hardships. You're little more than a fangirl."

"Fangirl? I'm so much more! I look the way he wants, talk the way he wants, acts the way he-"

"Are you even listening to yourself," she inquired, thoroughly disgusted. "You're a wonderful person, but you're too busy being him. Why don't you forget him, and be you? When you do, he'll come around."

Pansy hesitated. "What if he doesn't?" She looked more like a small child than the Slytherin Queen.

"It's his loss."

There was a long moment of silence. The two sat, staring each other down. Suddenly, Pansy smiled and tackled her advisor in a rare moment of vulnerability. "I'll do it!" Then she paused. "How do I do it?"

"Do what you want," Dementia began "Wear what you want, fraternize with who you want. The list goes on."

"Fraternize," Pansy repeated, not recognizing the word.

Her new friend smiled evilly. "Flirt," she rephrased "A lot."

And so began a very odd friendship that ultimate destroy two. Only one could recover. Two guesses who.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is only a remake. I own NOTHING you recognize. **

**traviswj: You're faith in my work is flattering and endearing! You've become the highlight of my day :) Sorry it took me so long**

A certain hybrid awoke to the snoring of a certain snob, though she did seem considerably less arrogant due to certain advice. Today, their Master Plan of Mastery would commence, and Draco would fall to his knees in adoration of the pure awesome that would be shared with the world.

First step: make her beautiful. No! Exquisite. NO! _Statuesque!~_

Dementia sorted through Pansy's trunk for assorted cosmetics. Naturally, she found a lot: more than any girl should ever need to have. She also found some rather flattering apparel and accessories. Though the halfbreed's style was a bit less...happy, they were very nices pieces.

When Pansy awoke to shuffling near her bed, her first instinct was to curse and holler at whoever dared to disturb her rest. However, at the sight the cosmetics and clothing, she squealed with joy and hopped out of bed. She joined the loner by her trunk with a smile on her face-quite a rarity in the mornings.

"I like where this is going," the priss commented, picking up her favorite headband. "I normally wear this with these earrings and this bracelet." She picked up an extravagant pair of earrings and a rather gaudy bracelet. Dementia simply shook her head.

In less than an hour, Pansy looked like _her_. Not an aristocrat, not a Slytherin, not even a student. Just a truly divine creature capable of ensnaring anyone she desired. The heiress did a spin in front of her elaborate mirror, looking at herself as if she were some foreign gem. "I never would've guessed someone like you could do something like this," she murmured, entranced by her image. "But if I did, we've been friends a long time ago."

Dementia grinned, pleased with herself. "Beauty is a subject all royalty must be familiar with," she said.

Pansy looked at her then, somewhat suspicious and a bit starstruck. "You mean to say you're royalty?" The question was laced with a healthy bit of disbelief, but the hybrid could not fathom why. She acted like royalty, dressed like royalty. But by that logic, anyone could be.

The beauty nodded. "I'm no princess," she elaborated, not wanting to imprint the wrong image. "My father is a lord. I request you tell no one."

"Why would you want it to be a secret," Pansy asked, rushing over and plopping onto the bed. Her eyes were lit up in delight at this juicy bit of information. Perhaps it had not been wise to share with someone so simple-minded.

Dementia gazed at the girl, analyzing. "It is not a simple subject," she began "All I shall say about it is to keep it hidden. No one must know." The heiress nodded, a bit unnerved by the beauty's penetrating stare.

Not much longer, the two were in the common room and waiting somewhat patiently—at least one of them was—for the young Malfoy to come down. It seemed he was taking his time today. Many Slytherin boys approached the pair, more interested in Dementia's new friend than anything. No one realized it was Pansy Parkinson beneath that glamorous exterior.

The two were conversing with another girl with Draco finally ascended the steps into the common room. The girl took one look at him, sneered, and darted away. The young Malfoy chose to ignore the gesture, opting instead to give Dementia the most withering look he could. It would seem he was still bitter about Hogsmeade. Either way, he did not faze her. It was, however, extremely amusing to watch that glower morph into awe as his eyes landed on the girl next to her.

"Dementia has a friend," he stated "Who knew?" The jab would have been more affective if he wasn't drooling.

"Don't act so surprised," the beauty scolded "You should know by now that Pansy likes to make new friends." His expression was gold. He attempted to seem nonchalant, as if he knew the lovely creature was her the whole time.

"I don't know much about _Pansy_," he protested "She's too busy fawning over me." Here he smirked at the girl in question and winked. She looked like she wanted to faint, but a not-so-subtle nudge from her new friend kept her grounded. Fortunately they were in the presence of a frightfully oblivious oaf.

"Oh please," the heiress scoffed, and got more vicious at look her friend was giving her, "Don't flatter yourself. We have more important things to do than stand around conversing with the likes of _you_!" Pansy linked her arm with Dementia and made to leave. They'd giggle about this event later.

"Who could be more important than me," Draco called after them. When they failed to respond, a Fourth Year replied with a tart, 'pretty much everybody' and stuck her nose back in her textbook. The retort was met with a scowl as the young Malfoy stomped into his domain wondering what just happened. He honestly had no idea. But that wasn't important. He had a task at hand.

Indeed they did giggle about the event later. Once classes were dismissed and homework was completed, the pair snickered to themselves and indulged in very dramatic retellings to the other girls in their dorm.

"You should've seen his face, Margot," Pansy exclaimed, rolling onto her back and sighing. "He looked confused and shattered and it was _hilarious_!"

Margot, an arrogant blonde Seventh Year, was delighted by the news and laughed—a bit too enthusiastically—with her. "I'd have paid to see the spoiled shit in that kind of situation," she mused, taking her waves down from the intricate braid it had been trapped in all day. "The only girls who ever insult him are the ones he doesn't care about."

Pansy instantly perked up. "You don't mean to say he cares about me," she said, bright-eyed and attentive. "Do you?"

Margot scoffed and looked away from her mirror to look at her dorm-mate as if she was impaired. "Of course he does," she exclaimed and went back to her reflection, arranging strands of hair. "Don't you see the way he looks at you?" There was slyness in the elder girl's voice that Dementia did not trust or appreciate, even worse was the blatant lie she just told. What did she have to gain by getting Pansy's hopes up?

"What look," Dementia asked, her voice as unwavering as her gaze. "Why haven't I seen it before?" The blonde glanced at the hybrid through her mirror, unimpressed.

"Draco's been after Pansy for years," she exaggerated, applying a balm to her full lips. "He's just not good with girls. Of you wouldn't notice, Dementia! You're in love with him. You'd never want to believe he actually felt anything for any else."

This mutt had clearly never been in love. "And there is your second lie," was Dementia's patient response. "Why not make another? Third time is the supposed charm, yes?" Pansy looked confused, hopeful, and a bit betrayed. All would be sorted between them soon enough.

Margot was eager to meet the challenge. "It's not a lie," she protested "I saw you. As if being in Knockturn Alley wasn't enough, you had to go and snog the bloke your friend in love with there." The blonde was utterly satisfied by the look of disbelief that Pansy sent that bitch.

Dementia was not surprised or ashamed. "I wouldn't call that snogging," she replied "More like talking one's way out of being jumped and then offering sound advice." Her friend still looked suspicious. The hybrid could understand that, but they would talk this out without Margot attempting to corrupt everything in her favor. What Dementia really wanted was motives. She knew this game well and didn't like the ending, not for anyone.


End file.
